Like the word silly, which once meant “innocent” (“the silly sheep”) but now means “foolish, frivolous, lacking in common sense,” the word contention has a distinctive history. Derived from the Latin contentio, it once meant “striving, struggle, competition.” But sometime in the sixteenth century, contention came to mean “disagreement, argument, fighting.” Unlike silly, contention has retained its earlier meaning, but today it most often conjures scenes of conflict, dysfunction, and disharmony—or, at its most extreme, mortal combat. A contentious person is someone inclined to instigate division, discord, and outright feuding—and, in the worst case, incite violent action.
In its healthiest manifestation, contention is fair-minded competition, physical or intellectual. The Bills and the Chiefs contend for victory on the playing field. Olympians contend for the gold. Nations contend in an open, if regulated, market. But in its unhealthiest forms, contention is first and last a ruthless power struggle. Fairness goes by the board, as do such norms as lawfulness, decency, and respect. Oxford debaters contend, but unless they are prepared to be disqualified, they adhere to established rules. But contending parties in an ungoverned dispute may simply fight to the bitter end, verbally or physically, with no holds barred. All that matters is winning or being in the right, or both.
Contention is often understood to be an existing condition, akin to the temperature of a room or the quality of the air. Likewise, a propensity toward contention is commonly viewed as an aspect of temperament, a trait of personality more likely to harshen than mellow with age. But from the standpoint of Zen practice, contentiousness is a mental and emotional capacity susceptible to changing conditions. With sufficient self-awareness, we can choose at any time to nourish or actively neglect it. At the same time, we can also cultivate a peaceable heart: a heart inclined toward peace.
Toward that end, classic Zen teachings offer a practice known as the Four Great Efforts, an aspect of the Noble Eightfold Path. Practitioners are encouraged to “water the seeds” of such “wholesome” states of mind as mindfulness, patience, kindness, and wisdom, as distinguished from such “unwholesome” states as greed, hatred, and vindictiveness. The first “effort” is to cultivate wholesome states that have already arisen. The second is to nourish wholesome states that have yet to arise. The third is to allow unwholesome states that have already arisen to languish. And the fourth is to do the same with unwholesome states that have yet to arise. These efforts are to be conducted methodically, their aim being the perfection of character. In monastic settings, the practice of the Four Great Efforts may include the recitation of vows and the contemplation of such virtues as patience, kindness, and compassion. For lay practitioners, it may be enough to regularly stop whatever one is doing and check one’s heart for currents of aversion. Bringing contemplative attention to such currents can lessen their destructive power and forestall future harm.
Robert Thurman, an emeritus professor of Indo-European Buddhist Studies at Columbia University, once noted that throughout our everyday lives we are feeding one state of mind or another. We may be doing so habitually and unconsciously, with neither a beneficent nor malevolent intent. But whether we are listening to a quiet, contemplative piece of music or watching a violent, blood-drenched action film, we are directing our attention to a particular object. We are engaging, as it were, in a form of meditation. In the first instance, the mental state being fueled is one of tranquility, harmony, and accord. In the second, it is one of destructive, ego-driven action. But whatever our present state of mind may be, for good or ill we are at once sustaining and strengthening it.
In an old Jewish story, a man is strolling along a sandy beach when a bottle floats by. Out pops a genie, who invites the man to make a wish. Without hesitation, he blurts out, “world peace.” “Oh, I’m sorry,” replies the genie. “A lot of people ask for that, but I’m afraid it’s out of the question. Please make another wish.”
Not everyone would agree with that genie. In the views of such prominent peace advocates as Desmond Tutu, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Thomas Merton, and the Ven. Thich Nhat Hanh, peace between peoples and nations is an attainable, if distant, objective. But, as Thich Nhat Hanh often reminded ardent pacifists back in the 1970s, any serious effort toward peace must begin with ourselves. At any moment, we can examine the presence of contentiousness in our hearts and minds, and, if we so choose, deprive it of favorable conditions. We can practice what the Dalai Lama has called “inner disarmament,” even as we tend a peaceable heart.
Image: Fred Easker, Mississippi Meditation
Last month, an Alfred State College student, who was working on a project concerning “spiritual life in the Alfred area,” contacted me to request an interview. Although I am hardly an authority on such matters, I agreed to speak with him. His questions, submitted in advance, struck me as serious and provocative. Foremost among them was the question, “Why do you think it is important for students to explore spirituality while in college?”
One Time, One Meeting 